


How Bad Do You Want It?

by stuckinarhyme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hooker!verse, Light Dom/sub, M/M, PWP, Power Dynamics, but only slightly - Freeform, ooc castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuckinarhyme/pseuds/stuckinarhyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One-shot: He chooses Dean because Dean clenches his teeth when he sees Castiel’s Jaguar pulling up to the curb every time. He does it because Dean curses to himself and slips into the leather seats with both self-loathing and anticipation guiding his movements. He does it because Dean makes him wait until they get to Castiel’s apartment to so much as touch him. He likes to make Castiel wait. Neither of them will admit to the tingle down their spines. But Dean wants the money Castiel has, and they pretend that’s the only reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Bad Do You Want It?

**Author's Note:**

> Not mine, rights go to where they ought.

He chooses Dean because Dean clenches his teeth when he sees Castiel’s Jaguar pulling up to the curb every time. He does it because Dean curses to himself and slips into the leather seats with both self-loathing and anticipation guiding his movements. He does it because Dean makes him wait until they get to Castiel’s apartment to so much as touch him. He likes to make Castiel wait. Neither of them will admit to the tingle down their spines. But Dean wants the money Castiel has, and they pretend that’s the only reason.

They walk up the stairs to the door, arms brushing up against each other. Dean looks good in black--sleeves rolled up, a bead of sweat pooling at the nape of his neck. Castiel always marvels at the clarity of his skin, but knows it somehow won’t be soft to the touch. He’s wearing some faded blue jeans, hands dug into his pockets. So tonight wants to play the boy next door; last time he wore a leather jacket and chains, and maybe next time he’ll pretend at the experimental straight man. He watches Castiel carefully, sharp eyes taking in the royal blue button-down, brown jacket sitting comfortably in the crook of an arm. The heat of Los Angeles in the summer rises off the pavement, even after sundown. Their clothes cling to their skin before they’re in the door. Castiel takes the key out of his pocket, fitting it into the lock.

And that’s when Dean starts earning his keep. The game begins.

“So you missed me?” he whispers into Castiel’s ear--the sensitive one, damn him. The breath tickles his neck. Lightning jumps to his gut in excitement. Castiel thinks of that spot as cheating, but he never says so. His hands pause, broadcasting his weakness, before they unlock the door. They rush inside where the air is cool. 

“You missed me,” Castiel counters. He ignores the scowl that Dean gives him as he turns around. Castiel doesn’t have to pay for a hooker, after all. He gets numbers, offers, even bribes just about every time he goes to a bar. No, he has no reason to pay for sex. Except that it makes Dean mad. Castiel knows how smart he is, after all. Mocks him with it. He teases Dean with the prospect of getting a real job, but Dean usually shuts him up with a well-placed tongue. 

Castiel doesn’t need much to function, and instead spends his money on other nice toys. He only pays for a studio. The bed and open space are separated by a half-wall that doesn’t even reach the ceiling. Dean always moves about the place like he’s never seen the movie collection, or the kitchen stocked with beer and liquor (kettle always on the stove, dishes drying next to the sink). Castiel walks to the fridge, footsteps clicking on the tile. “Eaten yet?” he asks, opening the fridge. He bends over (slowly--after all, he wants to win the game) and grabs two beers.

“So you got rid of what’s-her-face,” Dean observes dryly. He must have noticed that the nice tea set was missing.

“She didn’t answer my calls one day,” Castiel says. “I don’t chase after something that doesn’t want me.”

“You always come crawling back to me,” Dean muses absently, taking a swig of Castiel’s beer. 

Castiel traps Dean between himself and the wall, hands on either side of the man’s head. Dean is shorter than him, lips just barely out of reach. Dean’s breath comes out faster, but he hides it with the quirk of an eyebrow, a cocky grin. He thinks he can resist this time. Castiel’s hand moves slowly from the wall, tracing the spot where neck and shoulder meet, brushing over his collarbone. His body moves forward, closing some distance between them, but leaving space. Dean watches him carefully, doesn’t notice when his lips part to show his anticipation. Castiel can feel his heart beating in his fingertips, can feel Dean’s pulse against his hand. And still, he waits.

The smirk on Dean’s face fades, slowly, and becomes confusion. He thought he’d won, but he’s so, so wrong. “What?” he asks, put off. 

Castiel waits for the right amount of annoyance flicking through Dean’s eyes before he answers, dipping in to nearly brush his lips across Dean’s. When his lips continue up Dean’s jawbone without a real kiss, he can almost hear the beginnings of a dissatisfied groan. His lips trace lightly up to Dean’s ear. He reaches his other hand into the front pocket of Dean’s jeans and takes him by the hip, pulling him closer. Dean’s chest rises and falls faster.

“New rules tonight. Tell me what you want,” he whispers. There is a slight tremor that runs through Dean as he does it. He inhales Dean’s scent of cigarettes and leather seats. He doesn’t smell like anyone else yet, so Castiel might even be the first client of the night. He idly takes Dean’s earlobe--the sensitive one--into his mouth.

“What?” Dean repeats, breathier this time. There is a rough note to his voice.

“Ask for it to get it,” Castiel clarifies, rubbing a lazy circle on Dean’s hipbone. “Or I watch you squirm all night trying to figure out how to get paid.”

“Goddamnit, Cas, this is stupid.” Dean tries to push away from the wall, to bring the two of them closer for some friction. Castiel moves backward, hands up in surrender. The sweat of Dean is starting to mix with something darker, but he isn’t nearly angry enough to give into Castiel just yet. 

“No it isn’t,” he insists calmly. “I think you’ll find it’s quite the opposite.” He pushes Dean’s shoulders back against the wall, and brushes their lips together again and whispers, “Now, talk.”

He doesn’t know why Dean gives into it. It could be simply that Castiel is the client, he’s paying for Dean’s time, for his body, and if that’s what his client wants, that’s what he’ll deliver. But he likes how Dean sometimes forgets himself when Castiel lets him take over. Like watching a fledgling artist discover his favorite color pallette.

It hardly matters when Dean’s voice, unsteady, murmurs, “Fuck, kiss me already.”

They both moan at the first real contact, mouth tentative against a more insistent Dean. First it feels like kissing anyone else: lips against lips, silk and heat. When finally he allows a brush of tongue across Dean’s lower lip, he hears a growl forming deep in the back of the other man’s throat, losing himself in the slow slide of lips and tongues and wet and warm. Castiel keeps his hands firmly behind his back, because Dean hasn’t asked for those, but he explores his hooker’s mood in the kiss. The heat astonishes him. Dean wants to ask for more, but can he swallow his pride to ask for it? He can practically feel the request forming, but when it doesn’t come as quickly as he’d like... well, he cheats a little. He moans into Dean’s mouth, and the sound has an electric effect.

Dean takes control of the kiss, pushing against Castiel. His hands reach to unbutton the blue shirt, and Castiel lets him. Dean pushes him against the fridge, the cold of it on his back refreshing. As skin appears, Dean kisses it. He must be hoping that Castiel will forget his game. But his eyebrows furrow when Castiel doesn’t touch him back. He glances down to Castiel’s hands hanging limply at his sides. Dean’s nostrils flare. He hesitates for just a moment before rolling his eyes.

“Are you just going to stand there?” he asks, forehead wrinkling. But despite his frown, he can’t lock eyes with Castiel. His employer goes still and lowers his gaze, blue eyes calm and controlled.

“You tell me, babe,” he says easily, stone still. Dean tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes, hands still on Castiel’s shirt. The space between them becomes something else. For a second, Castiel feels like it grows and stretches like a rubber band at the edge of snapping before it smacks them together again. Their lips are mere inches apart. There is something new in the breaths between them now, something that smells vaguely like control, like Dean. His hooker sniffs, as if he too smells the change. He rolls his shoulders back, and pushes forward, until he can feel Castiel against his own skin.

“Hands here,” he says quietly, placing Castiel’s on his hips again. “Hold still.” His voice is gaining some strength, some pride. Castiel has to wonder if he’s been waiting for this, goading Castiel to ask for this... without him knowing it. A part of him is too excited to be annoyed about it. Castiel rubs his thumbs into circles, but maintains a firm grip on the protruding hip bones, surprised when the anticipated moan doesn’t come. Dean grins instead, and leans forward, nibbling on the other man’s neck. The shiver in Castiel ends at his groin. Into the sensitive nerves just below his ear, Dean whispers, “And you better moan, bitch.”

And then he bites Castiel, whose hips crush against Dean’s involuntarily. His knees buckle. A moan escapes, despite his best efforts to keep it to himself. It’s louder than he expects, and his nose wrinkles in confusion. How did Dean do that? Any further thought evaporates while Dean sucks at his neck, five o’clock shadow tickling and teasing. Dean’s hands finish unbuttoning the blue shirt, and his mouth bites and licks down to Castiel’s collarbone as the shirt drops to the floor. He keeps a tight hold of Dean’s hips. He gets another hard bite from Dean, who reminds him with a low growl, “What did I say?” 

Castiel has to take a steadying breath and closes his eyes. Dean’s hands run up his arms to his shoulders, then turn to blissful nails, raking back down to his forearms. Castiel’s breath hisses, and that seems to satisfy Dean for the moment.

He has no idea how they get to the bed. Maybe Dean ordered him to move, and maybe they tore through the apartment like it was on fire. Maybe Castiel dragged him there. The lights are off, but he can still see the outline of Dean’s form, endlessly in motion. He has no idea who’s got the power anymore, but Dean is on top of him, shirt off and hips rolling against Castiel’s. The roughness of his jeans is torture on him. The pressure makes him beg for more in quiet, breathy whimpers. 

Jesus, when did his pants come off? He strokes a hand down Dean’s spine, because Dean told him to, and he uses his nails because it’s what he wants Dean to do to him. He feels the heat and wet of Dean’s tongue, his mouth, his hands on Castiel’s body. Dean’s hands feel calloused and rough. His fingers roll one of Castiel’s nipples, and once it’s erect and red, he begins to squeeze. His tongue laps hungrily at the other, teeth brushing against it. Castiel moans, but it must not be good enough for Dean, because he gets a hard bite in response, so he tries again, louder. His reward is Dean’s breath on his chest as he holds back a chuckle.

“Pants,” Castiel tries to beg, but it comes out as a strangled groan. His hips buck up towards Dean, as starved for attention as the rest of him. Dean must understand, because he slips out of his jeans and boxer-briefs, erection bobbing. Before Castiel can miss Dean’s hands on him, they’re back at his arms, on his chest, around his neck. They tighten and squeeze at the fingertips, gently at first. 

Dean’s voice is raspy, but there’s a fire in his eyes. “Tell me you want more,” he says. Castiel responds by putting one hand on Dean’s hip and pulling down. The other hand is on Dean’s, asking for the fingers to tighten more before he realizes that he wants it.

But Dean pulls away entirely. Hands disappear, and Castiel feels cold. Through the light behind him, Dean looks like a great dark wraith. He sits up, hand falling to his cock. Castiel can’t keep his eyes on Dean’s, distracted.

“Tell me--” Dean whispers into the warm apartment. He leans forward to kiss Castiel’s thigh, tongue wet and warm and moving up. Castiel’s chest rises faster, but his eyes are frozen on Dean, who continues up his thigh, closer and closer to his cock, but never touching it.

“--you want--” Dean continues before biting down hard, and sucking on the tender flesh as it reddens beneath his tongue.

“More,” Castiel rasps, surprised at his own submission. As soon as the word escapes him, though, it doesn’t stop. His voice cracks, his fingers reach for Dean, and he doesn’t know why he wants the things he does. 

“More, Dean. Jesus Christ, top me you fucker.”

Dean’s skilled hands reach up to his neck again, and squeeze harder than last time. The pressure makes it difficult to breathe, but it makes him feel dizzy in pleasure.

He wants to say it to Dean again. He wants to submit, to surrender to Dean’s whims. The other man’s eyes are alight with a fury and a fire that Castiel has never seen. When he kisses Castiel, he bites at a lower lip hungrily. He buries his face into Castiel’s neck, licking lightly at the sensitive skin.

“Yes,” he hisses into Castiel’s ear, before leaving him alone on the bed to prepare. 

A small part of him hoped that Dean would ignore it, that he’d fall into the old routine. Castiel always tops, always controls, always makes them come as close to the same time as he can get. But maybe he also always saw the way Dean liked to push him against a wall, and to challenge his authority. The best sex is when they’re mad at each other, when Castiel pokes and prods at the beast in Dean who detests him and the sight of his Jag approaching. Maybe Castiel wanted this long before and didn’t know how to say so... until he made Dean make him ask for it.

Dean returns quickly. He kneels on the bed, reaching for Castiel’s hand. He licks the palm slowly, then spits into it. Castiel recognizes the signal, as he’s done it to Dean before. The wet hand is soon on his cock, stroking himself. Dean takes a lubed finger (how does he fucking do that without Castiel seeing?) and teases his entrance. Castiel does his best to relax. The stretch is easy at first, and doesn’t... hurt. He had expected it to. But Dean curls his finger upward and--no, that certainly isn’t pain. 

“Yes,” he groans, and Dean nods. He waits until Castiel is inhaling, and inserts another finger. The process to get him ready is longer than he’d like. He’s surprised at Dean’s gentleness. He wants this more. His hand strokes himself faster. 

Dean smirks at him, and Castiel doesn’t know why until he realizes how vocal he’s become. He’s moaning, whispering, stuttering, outright begging. Dean removes his fingers (when did he put a third in?), and rips the condom packet open, covering it with still more lube. Castiel’s eyes are transfixed on the sight. Dean lifts Castiel’s legs to rest on his shoulders. He lines his cock up and pushes in, slowly. Castiel’s hand stills on himself while he breathes. The head breaching his body is the weirdest part, and the stretch is more intense than just the fingers. But it doesn’t hurt, it’s just... strange. His body isn’t ready to accept the intrusion at first, but he feels every inch of that slow slide down. He is surprised at the fullness, the heat. 

He realizes Dean’s thighs are touching his arse. He takes another shaky breath before looking up at Dean, whose expression is blank.

“Okay?” he asks Castiel. He probably doesn’t know how tender his voice sounds right now, or he wouldn’t ask it this way. Castiel nods.

“Yes,” he finally manages. Dean’s expression doesn’t change.

Experimentally, Castiel pushes his hips up and gasps at the feeling of the cock sliding inside him--again, the fullness, the heat. Dean closes his eyes and lets his head fall back.

“Oh my God,” he whispers. He pushes forward slightly, hips rolling patiently. When his only answer is a hissed breath and Castiel’s eyes rolling to the back of his head, he presses in a bit deeper. The movement soon has Castiel moving to meet Dean’s thrusts. 

“More,” Castiel rasps. Dean obliges, moving faster. “More of that, yes.” He takes one of Dean’s hands, placing it on his neck. Dean’s eyes widen and the man moves faster, a light sheen of sweat covering him from head to toe. He squeezes Castiel’s neck and puts pressure just below the Adam’s apple--like he’s always known how to do it. Maybe he has.

“Fuck, yes,” Dean says, his cock slowly angling upwards to Castiel’s prostate. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks, you little cunt.” His hips move faster and angle up, and Castiel is screaming. Dean keeps talking through heavy breaths, voice like honey and steel. “I’ve wanted to fuck you into the headboard, wipe that fucking smile off your face... now beg me for it you fucking bitch.”

And he does. He’s not sure if the words please, yes, more, oh God, fuck come out of his mouth, but they try their level best. He moves to match Dean’s thrusts, his cock getting a firm stroke between their bellies at each thrust. The hand on his throat is tightening. His breathing quickens. He bites his lip to keep from getting any louder.

“I’m going to fucking wreck you,” Dean is saying, and Castiel suddenly wants him to. His hair is sticking to his face. “I’m going to leave you bloody and bruised in a back alley, but you’ll bloody love it and come back asking for more.”

“Harder,” Castiel manages, just before he grabs his cock and pumps. 

“Oh, you like it rough?” Dean asks, but seems to like it, too. His movements get erratic, and Castiel lifts his hips to keep the angle going. His sweat makes his neck slick, and Dean’s grip begins to slip. Castiel grabs the hand to keep it where it feels best. Soon it’s difficult to breathe again. He finds he likes it best that way. He feels his eyes drifting closed, but he hears a shaky exhalation, so he keeps his eyes on Dean. 

There is no warning. There are no words, no Oh God oh God oh fuck like Castiel is used to. Instead, Dean’s orgasm leaves him suspended for a single moment. He shudders, strangely silent. His eyes are closed, and he looks... sated. A grin spreads across his face, but slowly, like it’s sneaking up on him.

For just a second, Castiel is alone. But Dean knows that he doesn’t get to bask in the glow for long, and he takes Castiel’s cock in his hand, stroking with a hand that knows his body better than most. And once Dean takes control, he finds it hard to hold on. Castiel’s whole body shakes, convulsing up. Dean claims his mouth and swallows the scream that they’re both surprised to hear rip from somewhere deep within Castiel.

He falls back onto the bed, breathing ragged. Dean pulls out of both the embrace and Castiel’s arse slowly. The emptiness brings relief and sadness in equal turns. He didn’t think he’d ever like this, ever want this.

He also never thought it would finally come from someone he has to pay.

Dean doesn’t like to cuddle too much, but he makes sure to hold Castiel for a few minutes to make sure he’s okay. They curl into each other, faces nearly touching. Sometimes, Castiel will kiss Dean just because he has a few more minutes to do so. And Dean always kisses his back. 

“I didn’t think--” Castiel begins, but doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. I didn’t think I’d like--love--to be topped, to have you choke me, to feel like I’m slowly losing control. Dean doesn’t move, but his eyes say that he understands.

“It’s gonna hurt like hell in the morning,” is all he says. Castiel huffs and closes his eyes.

“And I’ve got work in eight short hours,” he responds. Dean kisses him briefly, sucking lightly on his lips. 

“Cheer up,” he smirks, “at least it was a good fuck.”

“Have you really wanted to do that for weeks?” Castiel asks, and the question takes Dean off-guard. 

“Of course, you moron.”

Castiel drops him off at home, instead of back on the street, and pays him extra. He shifts uncomfortably in the seat of his car, unsure how best to sit so the pain doesn’t take away from his current high. Dean says he’s taking the rest of the night off to shower the asshole off him. But they’re both smiling. Castiel waits until Dean’s shut the door to the car. Then, in the silence between him and the steering wheel, he grins a little too wide. “Maybe I’ll make you wait a few more weeks before next time.”


End file.
